


these precious things

by UbiquitousMixie



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Feels, Sibling Incest, Spellcest, aunties are endgame, i'm going to hell but i'm kind of okay with it at this point, two consenting adults getting it on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-10-07 19:27:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17371961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UbiquitousMixie/pseuds/UbiquitousMixie
Summary: Hilda learns, in time, how to live without Zelda.(or, the story in which Zelda gets creative about bending the rules.)





	1. she's afraid of the light in the dark

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally going to be a one-shot based on a prompt my wife gave me, but the more I've thought about it, the more the idea has evolved into something bigger. This is about two consenting adults (who happen to be sisters) getting it on, so if that sort of thing freaks you out, please go read something else. 
> 
> The story title and subsequent chapters are from Tori Amos songs. Comments are love (and, bonus, they are a huge pick-me-up while my wife is traveling and I'm by my lonesome), so please let me know what you think!

**1\. she’s afraid of the light in the dark.**

Hilda’s eyes open when she feels the bed shift, and she has to convince herself that she’s not dreaming. Zelda does not come to her like this anymore, hasn’t since she decided she was too old to snuggle with her little sister. This, though, is entirely different. 

She can see by the glint in Zelda’s eye that this is not an innocent visit. 

Hilda lets out the breath she’s been holding. 

“How much will you miss me when I’m gone?” the older witch asks, her thumb brushing over the apple of Hilda’s cheek as she sweeps away an errant lock of blonde hair, lingering to caress the softness below. 

Hilda shivers. “I already miss you,” she whispers, turning her face into the touch like a flower seeking the sun. 

“I’m still here, little one.” 

That thumb sweeps over her full lower lip, and Hilda puffs out a shallow gasp as the foreign sensation sets her alight. Zelda can feel it against her knuckles and she sighs. 

Hilda’s heart races. She’s wanted this so badly, so desperately, from the moment her body understood what it meant to yearn. 

It never occurred to her that Zelda would share this secret, shameful desire. 

“Will you miss me?” Hilda croaks, her tongue slipping past her parted lips to stroke against her sister’s thumb. 

Zelda cups Hilda’s cheek, pulling her in so close that their foreheads touch and their warm breaths mingle sweetly between them. Zelda brushes her lips gently against Hilda’s and whispers, “No.” 

Hilda surges against her then, pressing her mouth full against her sister’s. She is tentative and unsure because she has never done this before, has never wanted to try it with anyone who wasn’t Zelda, and she’s having a hard time concentrating because this is the most erotic thing she has ever experienced in her life and she may not survive long enough to master the basics of making out with her sister.

“Just this once,” Zelda sighs, pleading, threading her fingers in Hilda’s hair, holding her close as she worships her sister’s mouth. “I couldn’t stand the thought of leaving without kissing you just this once.” 

Zelda swallows her sister’s moan, and when that wicked tongue swipes between her lips, Hilda lets her in. It had never occurred to her that Zelda’s tongue would be a revelation. 

Hilda can’t stop herself: her hands begin to wander, palming the soft curve of Zelda’s hip, the roundness of her ass. The older witch growls and bites Hilda’s throat in response, and she angles her hips away. “We…” Zelda begins breathlessly, trembling beneath Hilda’s questing fingers. “Not that. We can’t. Just kiss me.” 

Their tongues meet again, and Hilda can’t control the way her hips cant forward, seeking the pressure and molten heat of Zelda’s body. Her sister stays just far enough away to drive Hilda crazy. 

“Please touch me, sister,” Hilda begs, sucking hard at the base of Zelda’s throat. She has never wanted anything more in her life.

“I can’t,” Zelda gasps, “but…” She takes Hilda’s hand in her own and guides it between their bodies. Hilda pants with want and nearly whines when Zelda presses Hilda’s hand between her own legs. “Together, like this,” she instructs, and Hilda can feel Zelda’s hand already rucking up the length of her silk gown. 

Hilda moans and follows suit, bringing her mouth back to her sister’s as she slips beneath her own nightgown to touch already damp knickers. The backs of their hands bump together as they fuck themselves, and Hilda has forgotten how to breathe. She rubs frantically at herself through her soaked underwear, the glide of cotton against her clitoris a delicious sensation. Zelda matches her desperation, pulling away from their fevered kisses to stare, pupils-blown, at her sister. Hilda stares back. 

Hilda is certain that her sister has ruined sex for her after this -- nothing will ever compare to the intimacy of this moment. She wants so badly to talk, to tell Zelda how precious and beautiful and horrible she is, but settles instead for kissing her once more.

They come together, moaning into each other’s mouths, and Hilda marvels that Zelda didn’t just leave her behind. 

“Oh, my heart,” Zelda whispers into the darkness, panting to catch her breath, ghosting her lips once more over Hilda’s forehead.

Hilda opens her mouth to speak, but her sister cups her cheeks and pulls her in for one more kiss, more tender than Hilda ever thought her capable of. Zelda kisses the tip of her nose before she’s sliding out of Hilda’s bed and back into her own. 

The blonde pinches herself, grinning when she realizes that no, this is not a dream. 

She’s not dreaming, and Zelda is going to miss her, and Hilda couldn’t be happier. 

Hilda wakes not to a dream but a nightmare. 

In the early morning hours, Zelda has gone. 

She hasn’t said goodbye. 

\--


	2. i’m not like the girls that you’ve known, but i believe i’m worth coming home to

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey weirdos! So, I may not always be able to update quite this often, but I'm in a shitty headspace tonight and honestly, I'm a whore for comments and thought they might cheer me up. Although, fair warning: this one's a bit angsty (but I promise...things are gonna get dirty.)
> 
> Chapter title is from "Sleeps with Butterflies" by Tori Amos, obvs.

**2\. i’m not like the girls that you’ve known, but i believe i’m worth coming home to.**

Hilda falls ill once Zelda leaves for her world travels. 

She has survived Zelda’s harrowing, Zelda’s moods, Zelda’s murdering. 

She may not survive Zelda’s love. 

Zelda’s absence. 

Infernal doctors are stymied by her illness. No amount of poultice or potion can ease her fever, her night terrors, her pallor. One doctor calls it an autoimmune disease. Another calls it heartache. 

Edward writes to Zelda. 

When Hilda opens her eyes one gray, dull day, she nearly screams to find Zelda standing at the foot of her bed. 

“So you _are_ alive,” Zelda says dryly, arms crossed over her smart blue suit. 

Zelda is supposed to be in Paris right now. A glance at the window confirms that she is, in fact, in Paris: there is one sparrow flapping, agitated, on the sill. 

“Sorry to disappoint,” Hilda spits out, flopping back against her pillow. She cannot take her eyes from Zelda’s face: she has been starved of her and now that she has her, even through the astral plane, she won’t waste it. “Why are you here?” 

“I heard you were ill, obviously.” 

“You’ve never cared when I’ve been sick before,” Hilda points out. “Why do you care now?” 

“Oh, my heart,” Zelda says gently, frowning down at her sister. She reaches out a hand and then, as if remembering that she can’t touch her, curls her fingers into her fist. “You know I care.” 

“Do I?” Hilda rolls her eyes. “You left without saying goodbye.” She sniffs. “After what happened…” 

“That’s why I had to leave,” Zelda says, looking helplessly at her hands. “We very nearly crossed a line.” She sighs, looking anywhere but at Hilda. “I almost made us do something unspeakable. I had to leave.” 

“Rubbish,” Hilda replies. “You didn’t do anything I hadn’t already wanted.” 

“I...I know. Surely, my little dove, you understand why it’s best that I left. What we wanted that night...I am your elder sister. I could not lead you so blindly into sin.” 

“I would follow you anywhere, sister.” Another psychopomp appears at the window, and she knows their time is limited. “Please, Zelds...stay with me. Come home.” 

“It’s better this way,” Zelda says finally, her mouth set into a fine, thin line. “The time apart will do us good.” 

“I think it’s safe to say that it’s not good for me.” 

Zelda frowns. “You have to take care of yourself, Hilda. You must stop this.”

Hilda rolls her eyes again, a habit she picked up from Zelda at a very early age. “I didn’t make myself ill.”

“You need to live your life. Promise me you will take care of yourself.” Her voice is stern.

Hilda wants to promise no such thing. 

_“Hilda._ If you do not promise, I _will_ return to Greendale and you will _not_ enjoy our reunion.” 

“Fine,” Hilda bites back, swallowing the lump in her throat. She looks hard at the projected image of her sister. She imagines her lying on the floor surrounded by candles, in a flat in Paris. A world away. 

“Promise me, sister.” There is something there in Zelda’s eyes, something Hilda almost doesn’t recognize because she’s never once seen it on that beautiful, pale face. 

Fear. 

“All right, I promise,” Hilda finally agrees, sighing heavily. 

Zelda and Hilda both glance at the quartet of psychopomps in the window. “I would kiss you if I could, sister,” Zelda says quietly, turning away. 

“Wait!” Hilda shouts, using strength she doesn’t have to pull herself upright. Her simple cotton shift gapes in the front, and wide blue eyes watch as Zelda takes in the sight of her. “Am I...am I too much, or not enough?” 

Zelda presses her lips into a frown. “Oh, little one, don’t you see? You’re everything.” 

And then she’s gone. 

Hilda’s heart lurches. She falls back against her mattress, heart hammering in her chest. 

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, what did you think? I'm worried that my Zelda is a little too soft but I hope I'm wrong about that!   
> Have any requests?


	3. when you gonna love you as much as i do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, darlings! I feel like I should warn you now -- Hilda's gonna be kissing a lot of people who aren't Zelda, but fear not, the aunties are endgame. Someone had asked about the time frame this story takes place in, and this should clear it up.   
> Comments are everything, so keep them coming. I'm a whore for feedback.   
> Chapter title is from "Winter" by Tori Amos.

3\. **when you gonna love you as much as i do?**

She learns, in time, to live without Zelda. 

She has a year left at the academy, and Hilda finds that it is much easier to excel in her classes when she’s not always afraid of being murdered. Zelda’s gone but her ghost remains, and the damage she inflicted has lingered. Her old chums delight in bullying her, adopting Zelda’s old jeers, reminding her on a daily basis that she’s a _frivolous, fat, unlovable loser._

Hilda is an easy target when Zelda isn’t around to do all of the bullying herself, but she no longer believes in the power of that old refrain. She has value. She is not a loser. Her body is not statuesque like her sister’s, but it’s soft and comfortable and _hers_.

It was Zelda herself who proved that Hilda is not unlovable. Her older sister loves her -- so much so that she hastily left Greendale -- and that is power that no one can ever take away.

If there is one positive thing that has come of Zelda’s vanishing act, it’s that Hilda has realized that she needn’t waste her time on men. Zelda often told anyone who would listen that Hilda was still a virgin, a prudish maid. They’d teased her for it mercilessly for years, but without Zelda to stoke the flames, interest in Hilda’s sex life dies out. She is grateful: boys leave her alone now.

Girls are an entirely different animal. 

It’s hard to fancy _anyone_ when Zelda is in your orbit. Hilda has never taken the time to wonder whether she prefers witches or warlocks; she’s always just preferred Zelda. But without her sister’s rose gold hair to blind her in the sunlight or the rare quirk of her lips in a genuine smile to warm her all over, Hilda takes the time to look. 

She likes what she sees. 

Her peers at the Academy don’t hold a candle to Zelda; Hilda is certain that no one could. This does not stop her, however, from appreciating Sylvia’s wide, pink mouth, or the sway of Esther’s round hips, or the long expanse of Helen’s shapely legs. 

She believes, for a time, that she’s content to just look. 

The longer she looks, the more she wants. 

Hilda very nearly ruins her first kiss from someone who isn’t her sister. 

There is one particular student, an older witch named Adelaide, who Hilda particularly enjoys looking at. She is everything Zelda isn’t, and when Adelaide presses her against a bookshelf in the dusty, dark Sanctum, Hilda panics. She has very little frame of reference for this and certainly has no older sister to ask for advice, but oh how she wants -- _needs_ \-- to be wanted. 

Hilda keeps her hands clenched at her sides when Adelaide passes her beautiful, pouty mouth against her own. She emits a surprised squeak and forgets to move her lips, and all she can think of is Zelda. Guilt churns in her gut, followed by a sharp jab of annoyance. She feels as though she is betraying Zelda -- betraying her own feelings -- by kissing someone else.

But Zelda is gone, and Adelaide isn’t. 

When Adelaide pulls away, confused and disappointed, Hilda grabs her hand. 

“Wait! Don’t go.” She swallows the lump in her throat and leans in, licking her lips. “I can do better.” 

Adelaide isn’t Zelda. She doesn’t want her to be. 

This isn’t love and it never will be; love is reserved for Zelda, whether her sister wants it or not. 

Adelaide meets the kiss halfway. 

Hilda _does_ do better.

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're enjoying the story! I meant it about prompt requests; if you have any, I'll take them!   
> Come find me on social media (my screenname is the same on Insta, tumblr, and twitter) and say hi! I don't bite (unless you ask nicely).


	4. strange little girl, where are you going?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am thoroughly enjoying writing this story, so I hope you are all enjoying reading it. Please let me know your thoughts -- as you know, they are my lifeblood, and they are super motivating. 
> 
> Title is from "Strange Little Girl" by Tori Amos.

**4\. strange little girl, where are you going?**

Zelda returns to Greendale on the eve of Hilda’s graduation. 

Hilda is torn between competing emotions: joy at the very nearness of her sister, and annoyance that her sister dearest has claimed the attention of her parents. 

Still, Hilda hadn’t been expecting Zelda to come home at all, so she decides that she may as well be positive about it. Being forgotten by her parents is old hat by now. 

There is much to be done in anticipation of tomorrow’s graduation, and Hilda is responsible for much of it, hemming her own gown and memorizing her lines and cleaning the parlor-cum-dining-room for the feast. She sees Zelda only once that day, in passing on the landing. Zelda’s eyes sweep over her body as if to memorize the shape, and it fills Hilda with such heat that she must splash cool water on her face before she attends to her tasks. 

She feels eyes on her for the better part of the day, can barely concentrate as she practices Latin phrases and works her needle into tough, black fabric. _“Noctem promitto tramitem ambulemus_ ,” she is meant to say. “ _Zelda_ ,” is what comes out.

Hilda’s anticipation of seeing her sister alone once they retire for bed is dashed when Zelda announces after dinner that she is meeting her friends in the forest. It is Edward who warns Zelda to return before the graduation. Hilda watches her go with a frown. 

She does not sleep that night. Edward calls it nerves, but Hilda knows better. She alone knows that she waited by candlelight for her sister to return home until dawn broke over the horizon. 

Disappointment is old hat, too. 

On the day of Zelda’s graduation, Hilda had been entirely indispensable to her sister. She had fetched coffee and darned stockings and brushed her hair. She had loved every minute of spoiling her beautiful, awful sister that morning. She’d been spoiled back that night by Zelda’s kisses. 

Hilda is dressed in her corset and drawers when the bedroom door opens abruptly, a flash of rose gold stealing inside. 

Zelda is breathless with laughter when she closes the door. Her cheeks are rosy. There are leaves in her hair, dirt on her skirt, and a vivid purple bruise on her throat. The laughter dies on her tongue as she focuses on her sister, heavy breasts high and exaggerated beneath her corset, lips parted in surprise. “Oh.” 

It’s clear what her sister has been getting up to, and Hilda forces herself to look away. She reaches for her dress, wishing Zelda had just stayed away, wishing Zelda hadn’t spent her night fucking people who weren’t Hilda, wishing she were in love with anyone else in the world, wishing--

“Sister,” Zelda whispers, and Hilda shivers to realize that her sister is standing right behind her. 

“We have to leave soon,” Hilda says shortly, moving away to stand before her mirror, dress in hand. 

“I know,” Zelda replies, looking over Hilda’s shoulder to examine her appearance. “Edward was sure to give me a lecture as soon as I walked through the door, so spare me yours.” With a snap of her fingers, Zelda is once more composed and perfect. The lovemark on her throat is gone. “Now you’re the only one who isn’t ready.” Hilda watches in the mirror as Zelda’s eyes peer down into the valley of her cleavage. 

“Why did you have to come home?” Hilda asks, willing the gooseflesh not to rise over her skin under the intensity of her sister’s stare. 

“I would never miss your graduation,” Zelda replies, tracing her finger between the freckles across Hilda’s back. The blonde shudders. “This is an important day in the Spellman family,” Zelda continues, sliding her hands over the slopes of her shoulders and down the length of her sunkissed arms. “You should be proud, sister.” 

“Are you proud of me, Zelda?” 

Their eyes meet in the mirror, blue on blue. 

“Yes, Hilda,” the older witch says, brushing her lips against the curve of Hilda’s throat. “I’m very,” she nips at the flesh, “very,” she sucks gently, “proud of you.” 

Hilda exhales sharply, clenching her hands at her sides. Her entire body trembles, from the ends of her hair to the tips of her toes, bare on the hardwood floor. “Show me,” Hilda asks, tentative, wondering, and then Zelda spins her around and gathers her in her arms, and Hilda is being kissed like hers is the only mouth Zelda has ever craved. 

Adelaide and Gertrude and Simone and Sarah have absolutely nothing on her sister, whose mouth tastes like cigarettes and coffee and love, and as that sharp tongue strokes against her own, Hilda forgets everyone who isn’t Zelda. Zelda whimpers -- _she made Zelda whimper!_ \-- and it tastes divine and Hilda’s heart feels as though it may leap from her chest as Zelda’s fingers dig into her hips, pulling her closer. 

“We have to go,” Hilda whispers absently, groaning when Zelda suckles at her lower lip. 

“Not yet,” Zelda hisses, her lips bruising and insistent, her hands cupping her backside. 

Hilda could die in this moment and be happy, she decides. She does not trust this and decides to savor it while it lasts, knowing it may never happen again. Her hand passes against the side of Zelda’s breast and the older witch gasps, and this may be the most powerful she has ever felt. 

She does not want to pledge to the Dark Lord that she will use her delicious gifts for the benefit of the coven and their Master; she wants only to make promises to Zelda with her mouth, with her heart, for as long as she is able. 

A knock pounds at the door. It is Zelda who jumps back first. 

“Get dressed,” she says sharply, checking her reflection in the mirror before crossing the room to the door, pulling it slightly ajar. “What?” 

“It’s time to go,” Edward says, his tone dark. “A word, Zelda?” 

Hilda watches curiously as Zelda squares her shoulders and follows Edward into the hall. She quickly dons her dress, heart pounding, lips tingling. 

The ceremony is brief, and for this Hilda is grateful. She has difficulty concentrating; the High Priest applauds the graduates for their bright minds and potential, but Hilda can only think of her sister’s mouth. 

Hilda catches Zelda’s eye and trembles under the intensity of her gaze. Her head is dizzy with want: she wants to kiss Zelda again, wants _more_ than just kisses, wants for them to lie in the grass as they did as children, wants to talk with her into the early hours of morning, wants to trace the heart line on Zelda’s palm with her tongue. 

Edward leans in toward Zelda’s ear, whispers something that has her once again squaring her shoulders and directing her eyes away. Hilda watches with disgust as Zelda smiles at Edward’s mentor, Faustus Blackwood. 

She meets Edward’s eye. He is as serious and impenetrable as ever. 

Sarah, who likes sweet, gentle kisses in the sunshine, smiles at Hilda. She returns the smile and hopes Zelda sees. 

When the ceremony is over, the crowd disperses, and Zelda is gone. Though Hilda has always known that Zelda would leave, the disappointment stings all the same. 

“Ants in her pants, that girl,” says Hilda’s father. 

“Zelda has her own life to live,” Edward explains, looking directly at the youngest Spellman. “As do you now, Hilda. You have decisions to make.” 

How, then, can Hilda make her brother understand that her life is entwined with her sister’s, that they were never meant to be separated to begin with? 

At this, the precipice of adulthood, Hilda wavers. She is unsure what to do, where to go, how to reconcile this doubt. It had been easy for Zelda: she had always wanted to travel, had collected languages the way Hilda collected spiders. Hilda had always believed that her path was parallel to her sister’s, that they might walk together through this life. 

It is clear to Hilda that she is very much on her own. She has only to choose the future she wishes to live. She forgets sometimes that she is her own person, not an extension of Zelda. 

It’s strange, she thinks, to choose solely for herself. It feels selfish, and she has very little practice in the ways of thinking only of herself. 

Hilda settles on a trip to London. She arrives on the eve of Queen Victoria’s coronation. She is overwhelmed in this new land on her own for the first time, with no teachers or siblings or parents to answer to. She drinks her fill, dances until her feet hurt, strips on the bank of the Thames to feel the moonlight on her skin. When she wakes in the morning, nude and resplendent and quite a bit chilly, Hilda decides to stay. 

Here she will be reborn as herself. 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to head over to the new Spellcest Tumblr page, together-as-sisters.tumblr.com. Send in your prompt requests to feed the writers' muses!


	5. you better bring your own sun, sweet girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been agonizing over this chapter for some reason, but I'm finally happy with it. Please let me know what you think -- comments feed the muse!   
> Title taken from "Welcome to England" by Tori Amos.

**5\. you better bring your own sun, sweet girl**

London, like Hilda herself, is vibrant as it grows, expands, develops to its full potential. She falls in love with the city and with herself. There is a sense of possibility whenever she leaves her little flat and embarks into the city, with its vitality and filth and excitement. 

She likes the way the accent tastes and decides to keep it. 

For the first time in her life, Hilda feels free to be herself. She’s had very little awareness of just who Hildegard Antoinette Spellman could be, had no idea of her potential without Zelda or Edward guiding her to follow along in their shadows. 

What a lark! What a plunge! She had no idea how marvelous and delicious autonomy could be! 

It’s a strange sensation, doing as she pleases. She stays out too late at lectures and takes unaccompanied walks around London, watching the bridges and roads and buildings rising around her. It’s thrilling to be in an epicentre of social, political, and financial advancement, to watch new meld with old, to see the harmonious balance between London’s rich history and its invigorating future. 

She stays up too late reading books written by mortals -- the more scandalous the better. She visits the markets and the parks and the fairs, smiles at pretty women, fills her free time exploring her new home. 

She spoils herself and gives herself permission to simply exist. 

Edward reminds Hilda not infrequently that every good witch and warlock require a trade, and she chooses midwifery. She has long since been fascinated with the cyclical nature of life and death, has had more than enough exposure to death, thank you very much, and decides that she would like to surround herself with so much new life. Edward arranges her tutelage with a witch from the Church of Darkness, a haggard woman named Lucretia, and Hilda thrives. 

The first birth she attends moves her so much that she cries happy tears as she hands the wiggling, pink warlock to his mother. 

Hilda almost never attends Black Mass. She vastly prefers practicing her faith in her own way outside of the austerity of the church, outside of its rigid expectations. The Dark Lord Himself urges “do what thou wilt,” and Hilda has decided to take his word for it. 

Edward does not share this notion and so she tells only a fraction of this to her family, to Edward, when she writes. She is careful with what she shares, knowing Edward’s propensity for tattling every detail to Zelda, having decided from an early age that it was Zelda’s responsibility to shape and mold the youngest sister into a respectable Satan-fearing witch. Zelda, of course, took to this responsibility with enthusiasm. 

Hilda never hears from Zelda. 

She doesn’t expect to.

-

Edward, it seems, has spies in London. He writes to her of his disapproval about Hilda’s lack of attendance at weekly church services, chiding her for flouting the family’s religious practices. 

“You are a Daughter of Night and a Spellman,” he writes, “and as such, there are expectations to be met. You will not embarrass this family, Hildegard. It is your duty.” 

She rolls her eyes, skims the rest of the letter, and tucks it in a hatbox. 

She does not attend the next Black Mass service. 

\- 

Hilda sits in the dewy grass, watching the sunrise over Primrose Hill. The orange glow warms her face and she wraps the hand-knit shawl tighter around her shoulders to block out the morning chill. Beside her, a spider creeps along the edge of her bench. A bird chirps in a tree nearby, and another bird answers its call. 

A man rolls a cart down the hill. The wheel squeaks, but it does not deter his progress. 

Another man walks his dog, some sort of terrier that runs around his feet in dizzying circles. He loses his balance before he scoops up the little dog, looks around him to confirm that he has tripped in privacy, and continues on his way. 

Hilda giggles. 

How could she ever doubt in the Dark Lord when this magic exists all around her? 

-

When Hilda arrives home one frigid evening following the birth of a witch a set of lungs like a banshee, she is surprised to find a parcel sitting on her table. It has obviously been teleported to her flat by a member of her family, and her heart quickens upon recognizing the familiar scrawling script of her sister. She eagerly unwraps the brown paper, desperate to discover what’s inside. 

She is unsurprised -- albeit somewhat disappointed -- upon realizing that Zelda has sent her a brand new edition of the Satanic Bible. 

She rolls her eyes and has to wonder how Zelda came by a witch’s bookshop in the middle of remote Persia.

Hilda reaches for the folded sheet of paper that is tucked inside the cover of the book.

_There are rules to be followed, Hildegard._

_Be a good girl._

Hilda immediately runs hot and cold all over. 

She checks the back of the letter just in case, rereads it a few more times for good measure. She runs her fingers over the familiar loops of her handwriting, missing those delicate, pale fingers. 

Hilda has to pause and catch her breath. She misses her sister so much that her heart aches. 

With a sigh, Hilda sets the letter aside -- _be good_ , as if she’s ever been anything but -- and flips through the pristine pages. As she skims through unholy hymns and commandments, a photograph tucked in the back of the book slips free, fluttering to her skirt. 

Hilda’s heart pounds as she takes up the photograph, eyes widening as it becomes clear just what she is holding. 

She blushes furiously and tugs at the collar of her dress. 

The woman in the black-and-white photo is angled away so that her face is hidden behind a voluminous curtain of hair, but Hilda would know this body anywhere. She instantly recognizes the flare of hips, pale limbs, high, proud breasts. Only Zelda would divest herself of the trappings of convention, posing not in her corset and bloomers but instead in what can only be described as a slip of fabric that hugs her curves and leaves little to the imagination. She can make out the faint shadow of her nipples and the dark thatch of hair between her thighs beneath the fabric.

Of course Zelda would have naughty photos of herself taken. 

Forcing herself to swallow the lump in her throat, Hilda looks at the back of the photo. There are only two words scrawled in green ink. 

_Miss me?_

Hilda bites her lip and fans herself with the photograph. 

\- 

Hilda is not sure how she is expected to focus or be a productive member of society with this photograph in her purse. Her fingers twitch, longing to open the cloth bag, pull out the image, and stare at the slender, hypnotic form of her sister. 

Her pulse quickens just thinking about it. 

There is a near-constant ache between her legs, and she’s giving very serious thought to shagging the next willing woman she encounters, virginity be damned.

-

Hilda looks at the photo when she first wakes in the morning. 

She keeps it tucked between the pages of whatever book she’s reading and carries it with her. She likes to look at it before she’s delivered a babe, or while she’s eating lunch, or before she goes to the pub. 

She thinks about it when she takes women home to her flat for wine and heavy petting. 

She stares at it before she falls asleep. 

\- 

Hilda wonders if Zelda would consider what she does alone with the photograph to be _crossing a line._

She sincerely doubts it -- surely Zelda’s motive was exactly this, Hilda with a hand working furiously between her legs. She can’t stop thinking about what Zelda’s porcelain thighs might taste like and suspects she is supposed to feel guilty about it, but she doesn’t. 

There are rules to be followed, and Hilda doesn’t care if she breaks them all in one go.

What could be more natural in the world than loving one’s own sister?

When she comes, it is with Zelda’s name echoing on the walls.

-

Hilda reads the Satanic Bible, looking for what isn’t there. 

She is satisfied. 

Vindicated, even.

She thinks of the photograph. 

\- 

She wakes to the flapping of wings. A familiar voice cuts through the confusion. 

“Well? Do you miss me?” 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come play with us over at together-as-sisters.tumblr.com -- there's a brand new prompt challenge that has just started!


	6. don’t forget you were the one who loved my wild way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't forgotten about this story, I promise!   
> I'm sorry it's been forever -- blame the sisters; they keep distracting me with other ideas.   
> Chapter title is from "Wild Way" by Tori Amos.   
> This is dedicated to my gal pal.

**6\. don’t forget you were the one who loved my wild way**

Hilda has worked hard to fill her humble London flat with beautiful things. Books line shelves decorated with delicate lacework, ornate vases, and odds and ends from home (including one of Zelda’s porcelain dolls). 

It is Zelda, though, who is easily the most beautiful thing to have ever been within these walls. Her hair is longer, wilder, curling over her shoulders. She’s lovelier than ever, clad in a green velvet dressing gown. Her feet are bare. Hilda’s struck momentarily dumb by her loveliness, by the very sight of her after nearly a year apart. 

Hilda’s lips part as she draws in a shaky breath. “Hello, sister.” 

“You cut your hair,” Zelda reflects by way of greeting, pursing her lips. “I prefer it long.” 

Hilda touches the shorter edges, curling just past her chin. It had been one of her first tasks following her decision to settle in London. Watching long locks of her hair fall to the dirty floor had felt like shedding an ill-fitting skin. “I like it like this.” 

The older witch sniffs. “You’ve gotten fat, too.” 

Hilda rolls her eyes; this is not the first time she has heard this, and it won’t be the last. “You’re too skinny.” 

There is a pause, and then: “Your accent is ridiculous.” 

Hilda sighs. “I’ve missed you too, Zelds.” Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Hilda considers the projection of the woman in the middle of her bedroom. “What are you doing here?” 

“I thought you’d be pleased to have me visit.” 

“Of course I’m pleased, but it’s the middle of the night...what if I hadn’t been alone?” 

Zelda’s eyes flash, and Hilda is suddenly very, very happy that her sister’s corporeal form is not present. “You’re joking.” 

Hilda raises an eyebrow, cheeks flushing with color as she recalls with vivid clarity two nights ago, when she spent hours kissing and groping a lovely woman named Berenice. She’d come close that night to putting an end to her self-imposed chastity. 

Zelda squares her shoulders, her jaw set. “Have you let yourself be defiled?” 

“Not that it’s any of your business, but _no_.” Hilda runs her fingers through her hair, pushing haphazard curls from her face. “I don’t...entertain men.” 

“And last night?” Zelda asks, folding her arms over her chest. Hilda knows that tone, knows she’s in trouble, but she can’t stop herself from admiring the swell of her sister’s breasts. “Were you out somewhere, not entertaining men?” 

“I was busy, Zelds. I don’t coop myself at home all day and all night, you know.” 

“And what, dear sister, kept you busy at two in the morning?” 

“How did you -- you were here last night?” 

Zelda inspects her fingernails. “I was. You were not.” 

She had been with Berenice last night, had kissed and kissed until Hilda’s lips were sore. And then Hilda had fingered her on her chaise, had made her come. It had been the first time Hilda had made someone else climax, and she had been so excited and so terrified that she had promptly gone home before Berenice could protest. “I was with a friend,” Hilda offers. 

An agitated psychopomp flutters around the ceiling. Two pairs of blue eyes watch it until it lands on the window sill. 

“I was not aware that English customs included calling on friends in the middle of the night.” 

“I suppose we lost track of time.” 

Zelda’s nostrils flare as she steps closer, her dark eyes murderous. “I would kill you right now if I could.” 

And then she -- and the psychopomps -- are gone. 

Hilda rolls her eyes and nestles once more beneath her blankets. Her heart is racing, pounding ceaselessly against her chest. Zelda had been so lovely. 

So annihilating.

Zelda never did like other people touching her things. 

Still, Hilda slips back into a restful sleep with a smile. 

\- 

An entire season passes before Zelda returns. 

Hilda is kneading dough when she hears the first psychopomp. Her first instinct is to whip around and she refrains. She will not give Zelda the satisfaction. Instead, Hilda’s sticky fist punches roughly into tomorrow’s lunch. “Gotten over the impulse to kill me, have you?” 

“I haven’t decided yet,” Zelda replies, her voice bored, impenetrable. “You’re looking well.” 

Hilda shivers. She can feel her sister’s eyes on her and, pleased with herself for holding out, flicks her eyes over her shoulder. Zelda’s appearance is severe, even for her: her hair is swept back, her dress modestly cut. There is a high collar to her gown. It is startling to see all of that pale, beautiful flesh hidden away beneath fabric. 

She wonders if this is simply a new style or if Zelda is making an effort to maintain some semblance of propriety. 

It doesn’t altogether matter: she wants Zelda anyway, even hidden behind a fashionable wall.

“What are you up to these days?” Hilda asks, working her hands through the dough. She tries not to notice the way Zelda stares. 

“I’m keeping busy.” Zelda wanders through the kitchen, closely observing the cookbooks lining the counters, the plants straining for sunlight on the window ledge, the fit of Hilda’s apron around her waist. 

“Care to elaborate?” Hilda raises an eyebrow. “I never hear from you. You could be plotting world domination for all I know.” 

The older witch smirks. “Now there’s an idea to consider.” She perches against the kitchen counter, ignoring the psychopomps flitting around the ceiling. “I’ve been in Argentina.” 

Hilda whistles, impressed. “And what, sister mine, have you been doing in Argentina?” 

Zelda inspects her fingernails. “I stay busy. I study, I drink, I dance, I fuck.” She shrugs. “It passes the time.” After a pause, Zelda continues: “And you, sister? Are you still _not_ entertaining men?” 

Hilda rolls her eyes. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

“I would, actually.” 

Hilda smirks, and it is Zelda’s turn to roll her eyes. She decides to savor this feeling for a moment, relishing the way her sister squirms. She so rarely has the upper hand. “I prefer the company of women.” 

Zelda says nothing, and Hilda misses the easy, early days of youth, when Zelda’s quicksilver moods could be easily identified. Hilda has always been the leading expert on her sister’s emotions, but this wordly version of the older witch is harder to reach, harder to decipher. 

Tears well suddenly in her eyes, and she blinks them away as she shapes the dough into a round loaf. Hilda has not allowed herself to acknowledge just what would change once adulthood pulled the Spellman children in different directions. She had always assumed that her path would run parallel to her sister’s. But Zelda has moved on -- has grown up -- without Hilda at her side. 

“Do your _friends_... look like me?” 

Hilda raises an eyebrow. Zelda will not meet her gaze, is peering disinterestedly into a basket of knitting supplies. It is within the realm of possibility that Hilda has befriended several lovely redheads, but she has begun to avoid these friendships: they all pale in comparison to the only redhead -- the only woman -- who has ever really mattered. “Not everything is about you, Zelds.” 

Zelda stalks closer toward the table, where Hilda’s cookbook is propped open beside a stack of novels. The edge of Zelda’s photograph sticks out from between the pages. 

Hilda has been caught. 

Zelda’s eyes are bright when they catch each other’s gaze and she chuckles. It is not kind, but it makes Hilda shiver all the same. “Are we sure about that, Hildegard?” 

The older witch winks and disappears. 

-

“You liked my present then?” Zelda asks by way of greeting when she reappears several weeks later. 

Hilda looks up from where she sits on her loveseat, knitting in hand. “Oh, of course. You know I love a good sit down with the Bible.” 

“Now, sister,” Zelda teases, “you know that is not the gift to which I am referring.” 

Hilda looks at the book on the cushion beside her; the photo sticks out between pages, the tips of her sister’s toes exposed. “I know.” 

Hilda bites her cheek to keep from laughing at Zelda’s impatience. “And?” 

The younger witch finishes her row and sets her needles carefully aside, turning her full attention to her sister. “I think you know how much I like it, Zelda.” She watches the way her sister swallows hard in response. “How can I be expected to be a good girl when your gift inspires such bad thoughts?” 

“Does it?” Zelda questions, voice cracking, even in the astral plane. 

Hilda smirks, leveling her gaze. “Perhaps you should stop by more often so you can see just what your gift inspires.” 

Zelda’s lips part. Cheeks flush. Fingers twitch. “That would be unwise.” 

The younger sister shrugs. “I think we could have a lot of fun.” 

“You’re cruel to tempt me like this, Hildegard,” Zelda replies evenly, arms crossing over her chest. 

“ _I’m_ cruel? Oh, that’s rich.” Hilda gets to her feet, crossing the room to where her sister’s projected form stands. “If I’m cruel, what does that make you, Zelds?” 

The older woman’s eyes linger on Hilda’s mouth. “Weak.” 

In a blink, Zelda is gone. 

\- 

It becomes a routine, though there is no discernible pattern to Zelda’s visits. She comes when she pleases, and Hilda is too starved for any connection with her sister to dare complain. 

They don’t talk about the photograph again, though Hilda continues to touch herself while looking at it. 

They don’t talk about sex, or Hilda’s friends, or Zelda’s conquests. They don’t acknowledge Zelda’s new modest wardrobe or the lingering glances. 

They certainly don’t talk about the obvious elephant in the room.

They simply...talk. 

Hilda had forgotten what it was like to consider Zelda a friend. 

She’s missed her. 

\- 

A year passes. 

Hilda feels like she has a sister again. 

Of course, she is in love with her sister, but she’ll take any part of Zelda that she is willing to give. 

It’s remarkable, really, that a full year goes by before Zelda appears at an inopportune time. 

\- 

Hilda meets Molly in a pub; they hit it off immediately. Hilda likes Molly’s wide green eyes and flame red hair, likes the abundance of freckles over her nose and cheeks and throat, likes the swell of her breasts beneath her pale pink dress. Molly likes Hilda’s smile, likes her plentiful curves, likes the distance in her eyes. 

Hilda knows, as she asks Molly to come home with her, that she won’t stop whatever is about to happen. She’s never gone all the way, has been saving herself foolishly for Zelda. But Zelda is insistent on avoiding this very act, and Molly is here and interested, and Hilda doesn’t see the point in waiting anymore. 

She wants someone else to make her come tonight. 

It’s clear that Molly has done this before. She takes charge and Hilda lets herself be undressed, touched, kissed by the wrong mouth, the wrong hands. Hilda moans and trembles anyway, lets herself be swept away by someone else’s eager mouth. At the first touch of a tongue against her sex, Hilda arches her back and groans. 

It’s when she clenches a fistful of Molly’s thick red hair that she hears it. 

Flapping wings. 

Hilda opens her eyes, meets her sister’s hungry, angry gaze; she doesn’t bother looking for the psychopomp. Zelda is exquisite, pale and clothed only in a flimsy, pale ivory slip. Her hair is wild, untamed, her face bare. Hilda likes her best like this, porcelain and translucent in the moonlight filtering in through the curtains. It’s been so, so long since she has seen that exquisite body that her cheeks flame. Her mouth goes dry. “Oh,” Hilda gasps, and not for the tongue lapping at her sex. 

Zelda looks wild, torn between wanting to kill Hilda with her bare hands and wanting to fuck her through the mattress. 

“Please,” Hilda says, speaking to Zelda. 

How fitting that Zelda should be present as she loses her virginity. 

Zelda seems to have decided this as well, and her lips part as she presses a hand between her legs. 

Hilda’s eyelids flutter and she arches her hips into Molly’s mouth. Her free hand goes to her breast and Zelda charts the movement with her eyes, lingering on the sight of Hilda’s nipple between her fingers. The thin strap of Zelda’s gown slips over her shoulder and Hilda longs to fasten her lips to that pale skin and suck. 

“How’s that, love?” Molly asks, lifting her head. 

Hilda cannot look away from Zelda as she gasps, “Don’t stop.” 

Zelda sneers as Molly leans forward to peck Hilda’s lips before kissing her way back between her thighs. Hilda’s tongue darts against her lips, catching the bitter taste of her own arousal, wondering if her sister tastes the same. Zelda’s lips part in a silent gasp, her fingers working quickly against the apex of her thighs. 

Hilda’s thighs begin to quake as Molly gently sucks on her clit and Zelda’s eyes stare. Hilda watches her sister, wants to see all of her, wants to be the one responsible for making her come hard into the cold winter night. 

She can’t help but close her eyes when her climax crashes over her, Zelda’s mouth all she can see as she comes and comes and comes until she is spent and panting on the mattress. 

When she catches her breath and opens her eyes, Zelda is gone, and Molly is smiling up at her, a laugh on her lips. She is unembarrassed as she says, “Name’s Molly, love, not Zelda.”

\---


End file.
